


Otherside

by tsunamiroll



Series: the sin of the angel [1]
Category: NCT (Band), Shadowhunters (TV), The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Shadow World Setting (Shadowhunter Chronicles), Angst, Fairy!Renjun, Interspecies Relationship(s), M/M, Making Out, Minor Original Character(s), Nephilim, Polyamory, Shadowhunter!Donghyuck, Shadowhunter!Mark, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, Vampires, Warlock!Jaemin, idk how to tag, uhhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 05:07:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16509899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsunamiroll/pseuds/tsunamiroll
Summary: Mark thought he did a fairly good job at escaping his demons, but when a familiar face from his childhood shows up at the same time as mysterious murders all across Seoul, his life gets a little more shaken up. Along with his parabatai Jeno, his two brothers Jisung and Chenle, the new transfer from the Busan Instutite (who Mark may know more about than he’s willing to let on) and the immortals Jaemin and Renjun, he needs to find out why innocent mundane are being murdered all over Seoul.It’s time for the Head of the Seoul Institute to finally face his demons.





	Otherside

**Author's Note:**

> this was beta’d by one of my wonderful friends who unfortunately does not have an ao3 :(.  
> this is also the prologue to what will hopefully be a 40,000 word fic, but fingers crossed on that.

Mark walked down the hidden hallways of the Busan Institute, occasionally darting his eyes around to check for stray Shadowhunters. The nine year old took a turn into another hallway, the arched windows on either side adding an ethereal glow to the white marble walls.

  
Mark arrived at a door, the cherry wood and brass knocker identical tothe rest of the doors lining the hallway. The six foot overbearing slab of wood looked huge from Mark’s perspective.   
  
Mark took a deep breath as he looked up at the door, preparing himself for what was to come. He could already feel that strange feeling around his heart as if a hand was squeezing it tight.

He fumbled for the key in his pocket, insides twisting as he bought about what lay just below the key. Finally, he pulled the key out, his nine year old hands unable to fully cover the ornate hilt of the it. He stuck the key into the lock, and turned it slowly, pushing the door open when he felt the lock click out of place. Then, he stepped inside.

  
The room was completely dark save for the light from the doorway. Mark slipped the key back into his pocket while pulling out a witchlight from. Almost immediately, it started glowing a soft white. He turned the rock over in his hand, the familiarity of the motion giving him a sense of comfort as he looked into the room.   
  
The gentle glow from the witchlight revealed a woman.   
  
Mark stared at the woman in front of him, who was facing away, her ghostly head of pure white hair gleaming underneath the witchlight. She convulsed and turned to show a gaunt face and sunken eyes.   
  
And once again, Mark had to accept with a shiver that this woman was his mother.   
  
The nine year old boy stood, helplessly watching as the woman, whimpered in the middle of the dark Institute room. The room, which would have normally been filled with light, had the curtains drawn. The only light came from the witchlight glowing in his hand and what little streamed in from the hallway. The hand squeezed his heart even tighter as he closed the door behind him, never once taking his eyes off of the woman in front of him.   
  
He gripped his witchlight stronger as the door finally clicked shut, thinking he could extract strength from the soft glow that the rock was emitting, hoping he could transfer some of that steadiness into himself. The rock cut into his skin, but the small pain gave him something to focus on as he took a deep breath before whispering into the dark room.   
  
"Eomma?" He tried to make his voice smooth, hoping none of his fear bled through in the form of shakiness.   
  
The woman's head snapped up, her ghost white hair reflecting the white glow of the witchlight. "Mark-ah?" His heart tightened. She seemed to scuttle forward, and Mark could hear her nails chafing against the stone floor of the dark room. "Mark? My darling son?"   
  
Mark shivered at her words, the desperation evident in her voice. He wished that the desperation was for him  but he knew it was actually for the substance that lay clumped together in a bag deep in his pocket. Yin fen, it was called. My life-saver, she would say. Her mistake, Mark thought.  He could feel phantom-heat from where it sat in his pocket, buried in his hopes that it would simply disappear.

"Did you bring it, son?" Her voice was gravelly from disuse. Mark could barely remember a time when it hadn't sounded like that. He often dreamed of someone singing to him as he fell asleep, but as he looked at the woman in front of him he had trouble believing that that voice had once belonged to her. How could someone so beautiful turn into something so monstrous?  
  
Mark slipped a shaky hand into his pocket to take out the packet, gripping the bag of white powder as if he could crush it in his palm. His throat felt stiff and scratchy as he made to speak a few times before finally making a noise, a croaky yes coming from him softly.   
  
He saw his mother shuffle forward a bit more, and he hesitantly took a few more steps into the dark room. As they got closer together, the glow of his witchlight illuminated his mother's face. The arches of her cheekbones and the hollowness of her cheeks, the bloodshot of her eyes and the starkness of her hair. All of it made her vampiresque. The light illuminated her eyes, once a beautiful brown color but now were blank and dull. Mark remembered those eyes filling with tears after the funeral.  That seemed like a lifetime ago.   
  
Mark's young mind registered the irony of the situation. Where his mother should have been the angel of the Institute, a glimmering figure of angelic power, instead she was hidden away in the back, a ghastly impression of what the Institute stood against, a terrible reminder to everyone that knew of her to keep their heads down and not fall into the spiral of grief that she had.   
  
Mark registered a hand reaching out from underneath a tattered white dress. The same dress that she had worn to the funeral. Mourning clothes, from when his father had died nearly a year before. Mourning clothes that his mother had refused to take off ever since then.   
  
He stretched his hand forward to meet her’s, the packet of the white powder feeling wet underneath his shaky, sweaty fingers. He saw her thin, cracked lips pulling into a sort of smile, although Mark couldn’t tell for sure. He didn’t know what his mother looked like when she smiled. Her dull, slate eyes glimmered as she looked at the bag, maybe with relief or delight. This was the only form of happiness that he had ever seen from his mother.   
  
Something in him revolted slightly at the sight of that manufactured happiness. On an impulse, he retracted his hand, his eyes widening along with his mother's at the action. The witchlight reflecting in his mother's eyes allowed Mark to see himself, a little nine year old boy, eyes open and mouth parted, looking scared and hopeful and dreadful and _lost_ all at once.   
  
The lost little nine year old boy who should be sitting at a desk, learning about his history and life, answering questions and preparing for his Rune ceremony. The lost little boy who should be out practicing throws with the few friends that he had, competing with them to see who could throw the farthest, who could hit the target the most times.   
  
The lost little nine year old boy whose mother should be taking care of him instead of the other way around.   
  
And something snapped.   
  
“No.” At first his words were soft, his breathing shallow as he took another step back towards the closed door that he had entered through. Mark saw his mother’s delighted expression fall, and like a coin being flipped, he could see the corner of her lips pulling up into a snarl. “No.” This time it was louder, more defiant, and he yanked his outstretched hand away from his mother. The tiny packet suddenly felt much lighter as he held it behind his back, but the hand around his heart gripped it even tighter.   
  
He had learned enough about hostile enemies from his tutor to know what to do in this situation. Again, the irony of treating his mother the way he would treat a rabid werewolf made Mark wonder how this had become his life. How it became normal for him to sneak into this room every week, and then every few days, and then every day as his mother grew more dependent on yin fen. How he had already developed the wrong kind of ties to warlocks in the neighbourhood who supplied the ecstasy, and how they willingly gave their supplies to a nine year old.   
  
He faced his mother with renewed determination, those thoughts burning in his mind, but the anger that had shone brightly in her eyes just seconds before had dissolved. Instead, she fell limp onto the ground. Her white hair shimmered as she fell, landing in a halo around her head.   
  
Mark watched as she began to spasm on the floor, and his courage disappeared, making way for worry. He ran up to her, dropping his witchlight and the yin fen.   
  
“Eomma?” He threw himself onto his knees, and once again he was the scared nine year old boy. “Eomma, are you okay?” He tentatively placed a hand on her shoulder, feeling the muscles tense and relax unevenly as she shook. She stilled, and Mark felt his heartbeat quicken as he looked down at her, her face angled away from his and to the side.   
  
After waiting for a beat, he leaned into his mother’s face and hoped that he could hear breaths against his ears, but a stone cold hand shot out and held him in place.   
  
“Give it to me.” Her voice was almost as cold as her hands. The words were nothing like the ones of before, and Mark’s already fast-paced heartbeat seemed to push a little faster. Her voice was still gravelly, but it had a steady, commanding tone.

  
“Give it to me, son, or I’ll die.” The words were threatening, and Mark’s blood ran cold. Her head turned slowly, and Mark didn’t need to look to know there was nothing in those eyes.   
  
But she was still his mother. His warring instincts clanged around inside him, and the his heart felt like it was going to be crushed by the hand that kept on squeezing and constricting.

  
“Go on. Get it for me.” The cold death grip on his hand loosened and then disappeared with a small nudge, as if to point him in the right direction. Her breathing was ragged, and now he could clearly hear it.   
  
“Get it for me like the good son you are.”   
  
Mark sat frozen, still looking down at his mother. The yin fen seemed to call him from where it lay only a few feet to his side, urging him to do what his mother said.

  
He opened his mouth to say something else, but something was wrong. Silence filled the room. The breathing had stopped. He looked down at his mother.   
  
“Eomma?” He asked, hesitating before placing a hand on her shoulder. A switch flicked and million of emotions flashed through him, panic and terror mixing into one. Still he tried not to shake too much, tried to even out his breathing even though it was coming in short breaths and far too quickly. His heart felt like it was about to implode from the pressure and it started to escape into his rib cage and stomach,   
  
His mother didn’t respond, but Mark could feel cold from her body even through the thin sheet of white fabric.   
  
“Eomma, please.” His voice wavered slightly and he shook her gently, but she still remained limp. He didn’t need to check again. He felt a choking sensation, and his eyes burned with tears. The hand around his heart stopped. It moved on to his throat , and he felt a tightness in his shoulders as he looked down at his mother. Mark shuddered under the realisation of what just happened.   
  
His mother was dead.   
  
Mark shuddered, finally giving in and letting himself go. His heartbeat shot up and he gasped, collapsing on the ground next to his mother. He felt like he was choking, his eyes burning up with tears. He took heavy breaths and started crying silently. His hand that had tried to shake his mother awake had long since fallen onto the ground, and now it curled into a fist. His blunt nails dug into his skin, and it was getting progressively harder to breathe.   
  
The witchlight, which until now had been steadily glowing, started to flicker and die out. But Mark didn’t see, for his eyes had pressed themselves shut. His breaths came in short gasps, but after a few minutes he evened out his breathing. He sat silently, his small body racked with deep breaths and shudders, before he finally stood up over the dead body of his mother.   
  
He walked around towards the door, not daring to look lest he cry again. He picked up the witchlight carefully, and looked down at the packet of yin fen that lay abandoned on the floor. He turned toward his mother one last time. Then he left, his heart feeling freer than when he had first walked into the room.

**Author's Note:**

> hey y’all! i hope you guys liked that. this fic is something i’ll hopefully actually finish, and it’s meant to be a nct shadowhunters au. i just love nct, and i love shadowhunters, so obviously i thought it would be a good idea to put the two together!  
> don’t forget to leave kudos and comments! criticism is highly appreciated!


End file.
